


All Hail The New Kids

by brax



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: M/M, Multi, Soulmate-Identifying Marks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-27
Updated: 2015-12-27
Packaged: 2018-05-09 15:52:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,042
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5545874
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brax/pseuds/brax
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The summer he turned twelve years old, Zhenya grew four inches. He stopped playing goalie and started playing forward. And his name came in.</p>
            </blockquote>





	All Hail The New Kids

**Author's Note:**

  * For [pr_scatterbrain](https://archiveofourown.org/users/pr_scatterbrain/gifts).



The summer he turned twelve years old, Zhenya grew four inches. He stopped playing goalie and started playing forward. And his name came in.

“It’s all in English,” said his mother, an unhappy twist to her mouth, when he held it out for her to see.

She took him downstairs to see her friend, Lubka, who lived on the floor below them and whose English was good. Or — better than mama’s, at any rate.

“Let's see now. It says _Sidney Patrick Crosby_ ,” said Lubka, examining the inside of Zhenya’s left wrist.

“Is that a boy’s name?”

“Sidney can be for girls and boys both, I think. But the middle one — Patrick — definitely for a boy.”

He asked her to repeat it, again and again until he was sure he wouldn’t forget. Then he sat and mouthed out the sounds to himself while his mother, not wanting to be rude, accepted Lubka’s offer of tea.

Later, when they were back in their own apartment, he said, “If my name is in English — that must mean I’ll travel, right mama?”

His mother bustled around the kitchen, muttering to herself as she hunted down chopping boards, the fresh cabbages and cucumbers she had bought yesterday, their sharpest knife. The detour had cut into her dinner-preparation time, and she was trying to make it up before his father got home from work.

“A name is not a guarantee, Zhenya,” she said, distracted. “You might never meet him at all.”

“I know that. But when I grow up, obviously I’m going to try and find him.”

The rhythmic tap-tap-tap of knife-on-wood paused momentarily. When it resumed, she sounded less distracted, and also warmer than she had since he showed her the cramped black handwriting on his skin that morning. “In that case, yes. I suppose it does mean you’ll travel.”

Zhenya thought it might make her sad if he said _good_ — if she knew how the prospect of moving away from Magnitogorsk filled him up with so much hope he could burst — and so instead he said, “Mama, do you think one day I might be good enough to play in the NHL?”

Because it was all he’d been thinking about since he grew four inches, switched to forward, and the other boys stopped being able to knock him off the puck. And because surely it would increase his chances of finding someone with a name like Sidney Crosby.

“Of course I do, baby.” The knife paused again. “Does it still hurt very much?”

For the last week, she had been applying aloe to his left wrist every night before bed. Tight and irritated, the skin had been painful to the touch, and still was, when Zhenya poked at it suspiciously. “Ouch.”

“It’ll get better soon,” she assured him, sprinkling salt and lemon juice over the minced vegetables. She swept the back of her knife across the chopping board, holding a bowl just under the board’s edge so that the summer salad tumbled in and could be left to lightly pickle by the sink. “In the meantime, we can do something special tomorrow to celebrate.”

Zhenya perked up. “Andrei,” — that was their goalie — “said Yana had her puppies last week, and he said that if I wanted, he could —”

“Zhenya, stop it.” The speed with which she could go from tender concern to annoyed scolding was whiplash-inducing. “How many times have I told you no?”

“Fine,” he snapped, and stormed off to find Denis so they could complain together. Well. He would complain and Denis would tell him to go away, probably. But it was the principle of the thing.  
  
***  
  
The wristband was thick, unvarnished tan leather with a simple silver clasp to keep it in place.

“Are you sure? It’s not to your usual taste,” his mother said, eyebrows raised, when he picked it up in the shop.

Zhenya curled his fingers around it. The width and weight of it felt reassuring in his palm. It felt, ineffably, like something Sidney Crosby would like. “This is the one I want,” he said firmly.

Five weeks later, he was regretting his choice sorely.

“What is with you?” Andrei demanded as they sat beside each other in the locker room, gearing up. “Sit still.”

“I can’t,” Zhenya said through gritted teeth. “It’s my wristband. I think it’s chafing me. My wrist won’t stop itching.”

“Then take it off.”

Zhenya did. The ultrasuede lining felt like sandpaper against his skin as he undid the buckle, pulled it away, and stuffed it into his bag.

 _Just don’t think about it_ , he repeated to himself during practice, even though his gloves were making the irritation worse and his concentration kept slipping between drills.

Afterwards, he was the first one showered and changed, and twice he had to tell Andrei, who walked home with him, to hurry up.

“What’s the big rush?” Andrei demanded as they emerged from the rink, walking a path under trees in order to avoid the glare of the mid-afternoon sun.

“I have to get home and ask my mama for antibiotics. I think I might have an infection.” His mother hoarded all kinds of medication. She would have something. He reached into his gear bag, remembering the pyrex container of clementine slices she had packed for him. He took a slice, then held the rest out for Andrei. “Here.”

“Um.” Andrei said, staring down at Zhenya’s extended forearm. He looked spooked. “I don’t think that’s an infection.”  
  
***  
  
It was September, and swelteringly hot in the stairwell of their building as he climbed up and up and up, stomach so heavy he had to sit down on the topmost step to the fourth floor, their floor. Their apartment was located at the end of the hall, its door looming large and shabby green behind him when he turned his back to it, elbows on his knees.

Furtively, he bent his head close and touched the tip of his right index finger to the new name. 

Some small part of him expected it to smudge or disappear, but the Cyrillic remained, stark against his pink skin. There was barely a millimetre of space between Sidney Crosby's handwriting and this unfamiliar blocky script.

“Alexander Mikhailovich Ovechkin,” he said out loud.  
  
  
  



End file.
